


Jersey Boys

by stepquietly



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Anal Sex, D/s themes, Established Relationship, Gangbang, M/M, Oral Sex, Panties, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Situational Humiliation, Spanking, Team Sweden, defiled jersey, minor comeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepquietly/pseuds/stepquietly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mats loses a bet. </p><p>AKA The great Swedish gangbang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jersey Boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [War_Kitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/War_Kitten/gifts).



> This is largely born out of War_Kitten incepting me and then mentioning kinks at random. Big thanks go to her and [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/profile)[](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/)**Honeymull** for the beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

It was a stupid bet to have made. Sometimes Mats doesn’t even know why he does these things, these stupid things, except that Hags had been goading him at home all of that week. There’s only so much anyone can take of being ambushed at random intervals with the Swedish national anthem and being thanked for handing people a medal before they crack.

So when Henke teased Mats about needing to step up his game at the practice, Mats kind of lost it and made a stupid, stupid bet about Norway beating them out in the Olympics. Which they hadn’t, obviously. And now here Mats is, standing in Henke’s room with a bunch of guys from the Swedish team watching him like they know exactly why Mats came, like they know what he’s wearing under his sweatpants. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, and would be way easier to endure if he wasn’t already half-hard just from walking over here, or even from standing there with all these eyes on him.

Henke knows, the fucker. He’s just sitting there, still wearing the suit from his interviews earlier today. He's got his legs loose and spread like an invitation for Mats to drop to his knees and press his face to the material at his crotch. Mats could nuzzle and breathe hot over where Henke’s dick would harden for him and press up against the fabric, ruin the lines of the suits he loves. It makes his mouth water just to think of it, the weight on Henke's dick on his tongue.

But there's no point in thinking of it right now because everyone's got their eyes on him, like they know how much he’s drooling for it, how much he wants to go to his knees and worship. He’d let Henke shove rough fingers into his hair and just yank his face onto his cock, open up so Mats can show off how good he is at taking it -

He suppresses the shiver.

“You’re wearing it, aren’t you?” Hags has his shit-eating grin firmly in place when he looks over from where he’s sprawled on the couch next to Henke’s chair, legs splayed so anyone can see the pale skin of his thighs. Mats nods reluctantly. He should’ve known Hags would make sure he was here when this happened; Hags knows about the bet because he was there when Mats threw down. He heard all the terms. The yellow was even his idea, and someday Mats will find a way to make him pay for all of this.

“Show us,” Henke orders, hand waving like Mats is his fucking lap dog to do everything he says. But a bet is a bet, and so Mats grits his teeth and ignores the way he feels open and exposed, how there’s that weird curl in his belly from it, and pulls the edge of his sweatpants down so the two of them can see the top of the yellow cotton panties he's got on under them.

“Shit, man, you actually did it!” Hags laughs, disbelieving. Mats narrows his eyes, about two seconds from bitching Hags out when Henke says, voice considering, “That’s not enough.” 

Everything stops. 

“What?” Mats asks, breathing speeding up. He’s embarrassed enough about being here while clearly turned on, but he’d done it anyway, all the stuff they agreed on in the damn bet. “It’s yellow,” he insists, thumb still holding the elastic of his sweatpants down. “That’s what we agreed on.”

Henke smiles his shark smile and steeples his fingers like he’s about to open fucking negotiations. “I think we agreed that you’d wear them and come here to show the team.”

“Yeah?” Mats isn’t really seeing the issue here, though having Henke’s attention on him like this isn’t really helping him feel less exposed. His cock continues to be weirdly into it. Mats is starting to feel vaguely concerned because these panties really weren’t made with a guy in mind, let alone a guy getting really turned on by this shit.

Hags abruptly scrambles up so he can perch on the arm of Henke’s chair and stare Mats down as well. His expression is uncertain but focused, like he’s not precisely sure this is where they’re going but he’s up for it. Mats recognises that look from years on the ice and from disasters in the kitchen back home; it tends to mean either brilliance or disaster. “This isn’t showing us all,” Hags says, and Mats swallows and closes his eyes, face hot with what he knows is coming. “You should take it off and show us properly.”

His face is flaming but Mats tries to scowl anyway. “Shut up.” There’s a bunch of other players in the room with them, mostly just silent and waiting but listening in like they know. Mats swallows around a throat that feels too dry because he even recognizes some of them - Oduya and Karlsson and Landeskog - and there’s a few he doesn’t even know that well other than general nods and pats on the back. He has a moment where he wonders if they know why he’s here, tries to think of standing here in his - in what they’ve made him wear while they watch, and the flush of shame is stronger this time, dirty hot in his stomach.

He wants to say no, he really does; it’s not normal to want what this is making him think of. But then Henke leans back like Mats has disappointed him, and Mats finds himself saying “Fine, whatever” and pulling his sweatpants down quick before he can change his mind.

Hags’ hilariously dumbstruck expression is probably the only reason he doesn’t spontaneously combust on the spot, but he’s defiant about this now. Let these players see that he has nothing to hide, that he honours his bets even when they are of this kind. That he’s not embarrassed to be wearing women’s underwear or leaking so much that it’s obvious he’s been hard a while. And even if he is, they could never prove it.

At least Henke’s expression, startled at first hasn’t devolved into him laughing. Mats doesn’t know if he could stand to have Henke laugh at him; with him maybe, but never at him. But Henke is focused, intent, dragging his eyes like hands up Mats legs and to where he’s nearly falling out, material straining, and up across his Team Norway jersey to his face. His voice is hoarse when he teases, “I always knew you were secretly a Swede under all of that.”

Mats rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Whatever. Look however much you want. I’ll throw these stupid things away after this, but I’ll probably never take this jersey off. And that’s what counts.”

“Really,” Henke says, and it’s not a question. It’s more like he’s mulling something over, like he’s thinking up more ways to make Mats’ life strange. But no, there’s something else there, something in the way Henke is rubbing at his lower lip, the way he’s sprawled in his chair, his thighs wider apart like, like he, like he _needs the room_.

Mats swallows. Because suddenly he’s thinking -- The things he’s thinking, they’re things they’ve maybe talked about once or twice before, just nonsense blurted out in the middle of a handjob, shit he’d said to get Henke to let him put his hands on his cock.

But now it looks like Henke’s been thinking about those things too, about all the shit Mats has rambled in the middle of their kisses when Henke’s got his hands on Mats’ dick. And Mats is half naked in a Team Sweden room, ass covered in yellow, and he’s, he thinks he might - he might want it.

“I’ll tell these bastards to stop looking,” Hank says eventually, like he’ll get around to thinking about it once his mind isn't elsewhere. His eyes are locked onto where Mats is rubbing a thumb into his thigh, a nervous tick that’s sensitizing his skin in slow waves. But Mats has been watching his face instead, this time, knows what the small glimmers and micro-expressions mean now, after years together on the ice, the occasional fuck over the years.

So he just slants Henke a look and says, arch, “But you like it, don’t you?” The room is silent, heavy with the guys looking on, expectant. One or two of them get up and leave, the click of the door loud in the room. Henke is flushed and silent, eyes hot, and Mats says, “I could do it.”

Henke looks at him steadily, whispers, “You’ll take them all” like he thinks Mats couldn’t, would tap out way before. Mats jerks his chin up, defiant, and says, “I’d do it because I’d love it. I can take anything you lot could give me and more.” The curl of shame is still in his belly but it’s somehow linked itself to his cock, like a livewire.

Henke actually seems to relax at that, like Mats spitting at him about fucking his team is somehow commonplace now. He goes to far as to curl a hand under his chin and gesture with the fingers of his other hand. “So you’d take those off, let us show you the skill that got us here.”

Mats swallows back his instinctive retort about Swedes and their skills, because that shit is what got him in this situation in the first place, and just says, bland, “And what would I get if I do?”

Henke just smirks at him, poison-sweet, like he’s got Mats’ number too. “Fucked,” he says, and Mats gulps. Because shit. Shit. There’s at least four other guys in the room, five with Hags. Mats can feel the tremble in his knees and fingers, the way his mouth is flooding with saliva at the thought. So he nods.

“Good,” Henke says, voice low and approving, and Matt feels something in his chest jerk at that tone. He takes that voice as permission to do what he’s been wanting to do ever since he came into this room. He pushes the coffee table out of his way and goes down to his knees so he can put his face in Henke’s lap, can nuzzle into the folds of his soft wool trousers to feel the line of his cock.

“Wow, okay,” he hears Hags say, and he can feel the hot shiver of shamed arousal that goes through him at the thought that they’re all watching, everyone is watching him do this. He keeps his eyes shut, breathing damp air over Henke’s cock and shuddering at the feel of Henke’s hand resting on his head, pushing into his hair and holding him there. “Help him take that off,” he can hear Henke order someone, and suddenly there’s hands on him, pulling him this way and that so they can strip the yellow panties off him. It’s complicated by how he’s on his knees but they seem to make that work.

He’s easy, plaint under them all the way until they try to pull him away from Henke’s lap to take his Norway jersey off, and then he pulls his arms in and makes taking it off impossible. “Come oooon,” Hags whines, yanking at the material, but Mats grins and tucks his hands in tighter, just to be a bitch about it.

Eventually Hags mutters, “Fine, leave it,” sulky like a kid denied a treat, and Mats smirks into the fabric of Henke’s trousers. It’s hilarious somehow, even while Mats doesn’t know what the hell he’s even doing. There are voices calling out for someone to get the damn lube and condoms out already. Someone in the room has clearly stocked up; there’s the sound of a drawer opening and closing and then there’s a rain of condom and single-use lube packets onto the carpet next to his hands. Mats has to snicker, half-hysterical, because the Swedes are totally overestimating themselves; there’s like twenty packets here and there’s no way they’re getting through them all.

“Hey,” Hags says, and smacks him like he knows exactly what Mats is laughing about. Actually, he probably does, the asshole. “Double wrapping isn’t actually better, you know,” he snarks, and yup, there’s Hags smacking him again.

“If you like me hitting you so much you should have just said,” Hags plays along. Mats’ laughs all the way until Hags smacks him three more times in quick succession, and then his breath hitches. Hags is rubbing his skin, pressing into the light ache that’s built up. And Mats doesn’t know where it comes from but he’s saying, “I can barely even feel those taps. If that counts as hitting you might need to stay off the ice.”

Hags’ hands pause. Mats holds his breath until Henke cuts in suddenly, orders, “Give him what he asked for.” There’s a beat where Mats continues to hold his breath, skin prickling over with anticipation, and then Hags’ hand comes down on his ass, the crack of it sharp in the room.

Mats jerks forward almost involuntarily, a high sound pulled from his throat. But Henke holds him steady in place and then there’s another slap against his ass, and then a third. After that Mats loses count because his skin is sparking, aching and tingling, and he’s arching into it even when he can feel it start to hurt for real.

He’s swallowing back the tears at the edges of his eyes and the thickened spit in his mouth, about to say something, ask for something, when Henke puts a hand on the back of his neck and holds him steady. The pressure of that hand and the way it spans his neck seems to work, quieting something in Mats that had started to push back. When Hags stops, says, “Ugh, my hand hurts now,” like Mats is the one who started this whole thing, he’s feeling oddly rooted in his body, flesh sensitive and tingling, like his ass is connected to his dick and his balls but through his stomach.

“Maybe you should move then,” a new voice says, and Mats turns his head in time to see Oduya come up on his left, fingers slicked up from the torn packets of lube. “Let someone else have a chance.”

“Henke,” Hags says, sounding like he’s checking in, and Henke takes his hand off Mats’ neck and nudges him. “State your terms,” he says, and Mats moves so he can sit up long enough to look at the faces around the room, at the want reflected back at him. “Condoms for everyone except Henke and Hags. Nothing kinky or weird.” Karlsson’s face spasms like he’s dying to point out the level of kink in the room already but Mats stares him down and he doesn’t push it. None of the others seem to care. Hjamarlsson already has his cock out, sitting on the bed with the best view as he strokes himself with long pulls.

“Can I get on with this now?” Oduya asks, halfway between annoyed and amused, and Mats shoots him a look before Hags moves away. Henke pulls Mats’ face back to his crotch so he can call out over the sounds of Mats scoffing, “Use a lot. He’s got a long evening ahead.”

There’s a second there where Oduya’s fingers touch the curve of his ass and slide in along the sides, the lube warmed from his hands but still cooler than Mats’ ass after the spanking, where Mats jerks warningly before he stills himself. There’s fingers rubbing around his rim and then pushing and fuck, fuck, there’s a finger in him and Mats has a flash of memory where he sees Oduya’s hands curled around a hockey stick, the gloves making them seem huge. His fingers _feel_ huge and Mats is clenching down and releasing, unable to stop himself because he can’t stop thinking about those fingers spreading him open.

It makes it take longer for Oduya to get another finger in him, long enough that there’s the sound of yet another packet ripping and a new line of cold, wet on his ass, dripping down his hole, before Oduya even starts to scissor his fingers.

It feels really good, mixing in with that feeling of dirty embarrassment from earlier. Mats’ skin breaks out into goosebumps, suddenly tight and sensitive. He’s grunting in short bursts, hips moving minutely into Oduya’s fingers, trying to get the angle right. There.

“Enough,” Henke snaps out, and Mats realizes that he’d forgotten about Henke even though he’s all but face first in his crotch. “Do it.”

Mats sucks in a deep breath as the fingers disappear. There’s the sound of more tearing and movement behind him, someone he can’t see grabbing a quick palm of his ass. Then Oduya is back and Henke is tipping Mats’ head back so he can look down at him, smiling and possessive, while he says, “Take a deep breath now,” like Mats hasn’t ever done this before.

But maybe it’s worth having Henke say it because Mats is staring at Henke, straight into his eyes, when Oduya first pushes into him, blunt and hard and so fucking big already, bigger than his fingers.

Mats desperately sucks in a huge lungful of air because Henke told him to breathe - and lets it out a second later in a whine. Oduya’s working his way into him in slow increments, short thrusts that feel like they’re stretching him open, the length of his cock blood-warm and somehow different than Mats’ insides, enough that he can feel every extra inch gained.

When Oduya bottoms out, Henke makes him stop for a bit so he can ask Mats, “That enough?” His voice is condescending, like he’s been waiting for this chance to see Mats tap out, and Mats sneers up at him before he shoves his hips back, grinding down onto the cock in him and ignoring Oduya’s own surprised moan to spit “I can take more,” right in Henke’s stupid, gorgeous face.

Henke just laughs. “Good. Then we can finally stop holding back.” Mats has a second of sharp annoyance that they’d even think of holding back with him, before Oduya holds his hips, pulls nearly all the way out and slams back in. Then it's on. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he whispers. Oduya’s a fucking giant and his cock is lighting Mats up from the inside, so big that its hitting his prostate on every other stroke. He can’t help but arch his back and shove into it, loving it. That Henke is watching this, the bastard.

Mats is constantly aware of him, can feel Henke’s eyes on him even when he’s got his own closed, and so he keeps them open and stares back, can’t stop looking back at him.

His arms trembling from where they’re braced on the edges of the chair’s cushions. His cock is leaking, and Oduya’s working him hard, hips slamming into him, hands shoving under the material of his jersey to span his rib cage and pull him back into a faster stroke, ass aching and prickling where Oduya’s hips hit them, knees burning on the carpet.

Mats is making the sorts of noises he’s only ever heard in porn, gasping and whining high in his throat and jerking his head back when the angle is particularly good. Then he’s fucking coming, easy as anything, orgasm practically pushed out of him.

Henke is watching him, eyes taking in every tightened muscle, every spasm. Mats just shudders through it, grateful to have Henke there and barely aware of anyone else.

His arms can’t really hold him after, though. Mats ends up collapsed forward again, cheeks flushed and pressed against Henke’s trousers. Henke’s hand comes up to hold his head steady while Oduya drags him back again onto his cock for what feels like forever, his nerve endings sensitized and firing random signals so Mats can’t tell if it hurts or feels good, but it feels _good_ and that’s so wrong and confusing.

Henke strokes careful fingers through his hair, and Hags is suddenly back, crouching down so he can see Mats’ face. His eyes are serious even while he grins and teases, says, “You’ve left Russia a gift on their carpet.”

Mats reaches out, pretending to be pulling Hags in - and that Hags lets himself be pulled in so easily is a revelation - and then cuffs him upside the head.

Hags pulls back and draws himself up, offended like a cat that fell off the couch while someone was looking, and Mats would laugh except that the sudden jerk for the smack shifted Oduya and fuck, the angle is good now but it hurts too, it’s _too much_.

He’s trembling when he reaches out again, and Hags looks suspicious but allows himself to be drawn in so Mats can kiss him. Mats is desperate to think about something other than the way his cock is trying to get hard again, far too soon for comfort. Hags makes a muffled noise into his mouth, surging forward, and everything is awkward and unsteady for a second, Mats tipping too far back and nearly collapsing against Henke’s knee with Oduya’s weight thrown in as a counter-balance, before Hags brings his hands up to hold Mats steady and licks his way into his mouth.

This, though, is familiar. Hags’ mouth is smooth and his lips are chapped, and both of them have too much hair that keeps getting in the way. Mats nips playfully at his lips, and Hags retaliates by thumbing his nipple over his jersey, letting Mats gasp into his mouth. He can all but feel Henke watching them so he does his best to make it a good show, occasionally leaves a gap between their mouths between kisses long enough so Henke can see their tongues, can see what he’s missing out on by sitting so high and mighty up on the chair.

The thoughts are almost enough of a distraction that Mats can’t feel the way Oduya thrusts faster and faster, hips snapping hard into Mats. His fingers keep tightening painfully on Mats' hips, squeezing when while Oduya finally comes, grunting.

“God,” Oduya says hoarsely just after. He pats Mats’ back awkwardly in thanks before he pulls out. It's barely a second before there’s someone else - Mats cranes his head to look and it’s Karlsson - slipping a condom on and lubing up to fuck him. Henke’s hands come round him again to hold him steady and Mats shudders through Karlsson easing in, his hole already sloppy with lube and fucked open, still over-sensitive from his first orgasm.

"You tell me when it's too much," Henke croons against his ear, beard rubbing against the skin of his neck, simultaneously soft and prickly. Mats just swallows, throat dry, and grits out "Fuck you, I can still take it," while he flushes all the way down his chest, sweaty and gasping, breath huffing out with every snap of Karlsson's hips.

"You seemed to do better when you kept your mouth involved. Maybe we give you something for that too," Henke says, musing, so Mats can remember the feel of saliva pooling under his tongue. He turns his head and noses, half-desperate for Henke’s dick, his hips working restlessly, trying to fuck forward and change the angle so Karlsson can get him better.

But Henke eases his fingers into Mats' hair and pulls him away from where he's mouthing the bulge under the rough material in a bid for his attention. “Do you need something for your mouth?” He asks like Mats hasn’t made it clear exactly how much he’d do to get Henke’s dick in his mouth already.

"I thought you already did," Mats says, amused, before he's never going to make this easy.

Henke narrows his eyes and gestures behind Mats to one of the other guys. Mats doesn’t think anything of it at first, too focused on the way Hags has snuck a hand in under his jersey, is scraping a nail across his nipple and down his belly, to see precisely what’s going on. Except then Landeskog comes around, and the sound of him unzipping his jeans manages to be loud even over the wet sounds of fucking. And Mats -

Mats flattens his mouth, stubborn and stung. "You first, Henke. No other," he insists, and Henke pretends to think it over while he slides his thumb over Mats lower lip for him to nip at, lick the taste of skin and sweat off its edges. "Demanding," he says, and Mats flushes down his chest because Henke's voice sounds hungry and pleased; it sounds like praise. “Good,” Henke says, his hand firm on the back of Mats’ neck again when it guides him down to nuzzle against Henke's cloth covered erection. “You’ll get what you want when you’ve taken the others.” It's a promise.

Mats has to swallow back conflicting feelings of pride and disappointment, but it brings him back to the moment, the way Karlsson’s not as big as Oduya so he’s not lighting Mats up with every other stroke, but he varies out his strokes, circling his hips and fucking Mats with long, loose slides interrupted by the occasional rapid set of thrusts that make Mats have to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his fists, swallowing back the sounds in his throat. Hags is back to scratching his nail over Mats’ nipples ‘til they’re so tight that it hurts, face close so he can watch Mats shake and swallow.

Mats wants them to finish, wants it to never end. He wants to show Henke he can do this, and fucking Hags too. He really wants to put his mouth on Henke’s dick. He’s a mass of want and want and want, and he’s leaking all over himself again, knees spread and practically draped over Henke’s legs.

When Karlsson finally comes, Mats is sweaty and twitching, halfway to his own orgasm. His hands are clenching and unclenching on Henke’s knees, and his mouth is sore from when Hags leaned in again and started to kiss him, sloppy and rough. Karlsson pulls out, and Mats winces because he feels so loose now, lube on his thighs and in his hole. Barely a pause and there’s yet another set of hands on him.

“He’s pretty open,” Hjalmarsson notes, and rubs his thumb over the edge of Mats’ rim, pushes it in and drops his wrist so he's actually holding Mats open. Henke says, "Just do it," smug while he uses his thumb to hold Mats’ lower lip down, heavy, like he's -

Mats groans when Hjalmarsson pushes in, his dick like a club, thicker than either of the others and almost scraping at his nerve endings. His hands tighten into claws on the arms of Henke's couch.

Henke whispers, "one more and then I'll let you suck me," like it's a promise, like Mats has finally earned it, three players down. Mats shivers and bites down on the edge of Henke’s thumb, keeps his eyes on Henke’s so he can see them flare when he swipes his tongue out to soothe the sting of it.

Hjalmarsson stops, keeps shifting like he's trying to to readjust, pulling back and moving like he can’t get comfortable, long enough that Landeskog comes over to see what the problem is. "He's getting messy," Hjalmarsson tells Landeskog matter-of-factly, and Mats flushes, dick jerking, because he can _hear_ it already, feel it on the backs of his thighs and in the creases of his ass. Landeskog just says, sounding thoughtful, "I should take my pants off to save them." Something about that filthy hot curl of shame comes back, works its way through Mats’ stomach. It's there with the idea that Henke is watching him take it, opened up so wide. Mats groans low and comes again, just like that, untouched.

When Mats can open his eyes again, Henke is rubbing his shin gently against Mats’ dick, the rough material making Mats flinch away and accidentally pushing him back onto Hjalmarsson. "Well," Henrik says, amused, "too late for mine."

Mats flushes before he flashes Henke a smug look, because yeah, he came all over Henke’s trousers, over one of those suits he loves so much and lords over everyone else. He's gloating about it all the way until Henke whispers, voice carrying, "On my leg, like a dog," so Mats goes hot and embarrassed, and shivery underneath it.

His eyes dart away from where Henke is watching him, knowing. He lifts his head and there’s Hags, mouth pink, kissing Landeskog. Landeskog’s hands are up to hold Hags’ face steady when he changes the angle, and Mats shudders and looks away from that before it makes his mouth feel empty.

"If I'm a dog, what does that make you?" he fires back, a minute late. Henke smiles down at him, smug as a fucking king when he says, "Can't you guess?"

"Jesus!" Hjalmarsson says, breathless from where he’s back to fucking Mats like a piledriver, "You guys are ridiculous." Mats has to vengefully squeeze down on him at that, just to hear his breath cut off. He keeps his eyes on Henke’s, refusing to concede by looking away.

Hags wanders over again at some point, face flushed, and perches on the arms of Henke’s chair, leaning into him. Henke wraps an arm around his hip, carelessly possessive in that way he has. Mats just gasps in front of them, feeling the weight of the two of them staring down at him, watching while Hjalmarsson tries to fuck his brains out his cock. Mats can’t come again, he can’t yet, but it feels like he should. It feels like he can’t stop coming even though his cock is just jerking, not even half-hard yet. 

Hjalmarsson is still slamming into him and leaving tingles up his spine, when Landeskog comes over. He's naked from the waist down and rapidly stripping his cock. He taps Mats on the shoulder to ask, “What are your rules about coming on the jersey?” And there’s a beat where everyone in the room pauses; even Hjalmarsson stops fucking Mats long enough to gape over at him.

“What?” Mats really hopes he misunderstood that. But Landeskog looks totally serious, face flushed and hand still working his dick while he waits for a response. Hjalmarsson abruptly resumes fucking him, and Mats whimpers high in his throat for a second because the cock in him is scraping over his prostate. It's still so soon but Hjalmarsson doesn’t seem to be giving him much choice. Mats’ cock is almost sore; his balls definitely are.

He’s pulled away from his focus on Hjalmarsson's cock splitting him open, big and thick like a fucking tree log, when Hags says, “Wait, you like that jersey?” Hags sounds torn between outrage and betrayal, though fuck him, this jersey is great. But Landeskog just shakes his head like Hags has got it all wrong and says, “No. But I think Sweden should claim it.”

Mats looks over to see Hags go from annoyance to approval, and Mats is torn between outrage and - Actually, no. Just outrage.

He opens his mouth to bitch Landeskog out but Henke beats him to the punch when he says, “Sure. Go ahead.” Mats swings his head around to glare at him but Henke matches it with a bland look. “After all, he’s ruined my suit so he obviously doesn’t care about getting anything on his clothes.” And Mats -

Well, fuck. Mats has to suck it up because he's fucked himself over on this one already.

“Fine,” he mutters, ungracious, and Landeskog lights up like Mats just promised a puppy or something, looking ridiculously young and pleased at being allowed to desecrate a Norwegian jersey. Mats ignores him, as much as anyone can ignore someone about to come all over them for nationalist pride. Instead he focuses on Henke. Because this is all Henke’s fucking fault. Except Henke looks smug and amused, and urgh, Mats is just going to have to close his eyes because everywhere he looks is terrible right now.

Closing his eyes means that he’s suddenly hyper-aware of the way the jersey material rasps against his shoulder blades, the slide of Hjalmarsson’s cock inside him, the sound of slick and skin slapping, the smell of Henke from where he’s curled into his lap, the way Mats is sweating and sweating and shoving back for more. It’s good, good enough that he can ignore the patter of droplets over his shoulders when Landeskog finally comes on him, the freak.

“Thanks, man,” Landeskog says politely, like Mats just did him a favour and let him borrow his water bottle or something, and then wanders off. Mats just gapes after him because what even was that, the weirdo.

Mats opens his mouth to say something, anything about how a little come doesn’t mean anything to the jersey or whatever, but Hjalmarsson takes that moment to squeeze all the breath out of him, arms tight around his chest as he rabbit-fucks Mats for a few seconds and then finally comes.

“Shit,” Hjalmarsson mutters. “Fucking Landeskog.” And it takes Mats a couple of minutes to remember that Hjalmarsson just hug-fucked him right over where Landeskog came on his jersey.

Mats snorts, unable to help himself, and then buries his face in Henke’s thighs so he can laugh just a little hysterically. He laughs even harder when Hjalmarsson yelps and pulls out, oversensitive and shoved out by the ways Mats’ laughter is making his ass clench down, push out. This whole thing is so ridiculous, it’s - he wore panties and fucked Team Sweden. His knees are starting to kill him. He’s wet between his thighs. This shit just _doesn’t happen_ in real life.

“Hey, hey now,” he hears, Hags getting off the chair’s arm and kneeling behind him, “let a guy keep his confidence, huh?” Mats laughs even harder at that.

“I think we broke him,” Hags says, mock sad. Henke’s voice says, “It was inevitable,” and suddenly Mats isn’t laughing so hard any more.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, sticks his chin out. Hags slaps his ass again like a warning or a reminder when he says, “That’s what we’re _trying_ to do.” But then he leans down so he can whisper right into Mats’ ear, “Zuccs, you want me to put a condom on? Because me and Henke, you said -” He’s stroking careful fingers along Mats’ side, fingers up under the jersey. Mats can feel the way both of them, Hags and Henke, have their attention focused on him. It’s -

Shit yes, he wants this. This is half the fucking reason he went along with this whole thing anyway. He mutters, “Shut up, I’m not changing my mind now,” but Hags gets all the stuff he isn’t saying, because there’s a hand stroking his side before it pulls away.

Then there’s another crackle and tearing sound before there’s fingers in his hole that push even more lube into him. Mats groans low in his throat while Hags pushes three fingers in and just leaves them there, heavy and solid, for him to clench down on, the thumb circling and petting his rim.

“Do it already,” Mats begs, eyes squeezed shut.

Hags eases his fingers out and his cock in, and it’s different, so different from any of the others. Hags isn’t as big or thick, but there’s something about how warm he is inside Mats, the way his hands are pushing Mats’ jersey up on his back so Hags can splay a hand out over the small of his back and another over his side to clench nails into his side. There’s an ache that’s spreading out between how sore and fucked out Mats is feeling in his hole and the sparks from where Hags is pushing bruises into his skin. It’s all sitting in Mats’ stomach right over his cock, making him jerk his hips, desperate. But Hags doesn’t move, just stays in him, hips snugged up against his ass while his hand rubs slows circles into the small of Mats' back.

Then there’s the sound of a zipper and Henke’s voice asking him to pay attention. Mats opens his eyes to see Henke’s cock next to his cheek, large and flushed and wet at the head. He looks up and Henke brings a hand up to angle his face, presses a thumb into the hinge of his jaw so Mats opens up and Henke can just slide right in until he butts up against the back of Mats’ throat, making him choke and tear up so Henke pulls back. But then he slides in again and this time Mats swallows him down, moans around the length of him.

Hags starts to fuck him and Mats is moaning, drooling around Henke. Someone is the room whispers, “Fuck, just look at that,” and Mats flushes to think they’re all still watching this. But Hags’ hand feels steady and safe even as his hips are shoving hard enough into Mats that he can feel the sting of skin slapping. Henke’s thumb is rubbing small circles into where he’s pressing on the hinge of Mats’ jaw. All of this might feel like shame, but it feels like pride too.

He’s leaking all over himself, makes a muffled sound, choked and desperate, when Hags drags his hand down and rakes nails over his side. He nearly screams when Hags gets a hand on Mats’ dick to jerk it, rapid strokes not even in time with his fucking. Mats slams his eyes shut because fuck, his dick hurts and it’s sensitive and his balls are already fucking aching, but he’s shoving his cock into Hags’ hands and trying to suck and move his tongue around Henke’s cock, his lips feeling just as sore and swollen as his ass.

“Such a slut for it,” Henke says approvingly, voice low but loud enough that the whole room can hear him. Mats flushes all the way down his chest when his hips stutter. And comes.

It’s like a signal, like Hags and Henke have been waiting for this, because they each pull out and let Mats collapse forward, still shuddering through the last bits of his orgasm.

“Shit,” he hears Hags say, “Gabe is a weirdo but he has good ideas sometimes.” Then there’s another spatter of drops against his back. Henke actually nearly shoves Mats off where he’s been leaning on his knees so he can come on Mats’ fucking jersey, missing by a bit and actually getting some of Mats’ hair and his ear, the asshole.

Mats- Well, Mats can’t _believe_ this shit.

“Seriously?” He groans from where he’s pretty much collapsed onto the carpeting. “That was the grand finish?” He flips over onto his back just in time to see the fuckers actually reach over him to high-five. Mats looks up at them, incredulous, and repeats louder, “No, seriously?”

Hags looks over, grins when he says, “What?” Like he has no idea why Mats would be staring at them that way at all. But then he nods and get this ‘oh yeah’ expression and puts his other hand out so Mats can high-five him as well, the asshole.

Mats holds off for a couple of minutes but then rolls his eyes and high-fives Hags because you don’t leave a guy hanging. Then he collapses back onto the carpet, exhausted.

“Okay,” Henke calls out, “good times but everybody else out now.” There's a mass exodus that Mats can actually feel in the way the floor under the carpet reverberates, the sound of the door closing a few times. 

Eventually Henke comes over. He reaches down and gets his hands under Mats’ arms and starts to hoist him upright, trying to get Mats to stand. And Mats grins and stays as limp as he can, forcing Henke to swear and huff when he refuses to get his legs under him. His hands are gentle though, careful on Mats’ skin when he draws the jersey off and leaves it on the chair.

By the time he manages to shuffle them over to the beds, Hags has pushed them together and pulled some of the bedding off so Mats can climb under it all easily.

“Towel,” Hags says, and wanders into the bathroom only to come back with two damp, warm hand towels that he uses to wipe Mats down carefully. Mats revels in it, takes it as his due because he’s loose and limp and would probably fall down if he had to shower, and everyone knows whose fault that is. He’s not quite at the point where he could shower yet, even if the two of them helped hold him up, and anyway he’s more interested in what he knows is going to happen now.

Sure enough, Henke strips out of his suit and Hags drops the towels on the floor and rummages in his suitcase ‘til he finds his loose, ratty sleep boxers. The two of them pile into the bed, jostling and shoving so Mats isn’t quite in the dip between the two, but is just perched on the edge of one with the dip behind him. He’s mostly sprawled out over Henke, along his side with Hags on the adjoining bed, leaning in close so his hip and the length of his side is pressed up along Mats’ back. It’s a fact of life that Hags kicks in his sleep, and Henke doesn’t tend to move much, so it all works out.

Mats yawns and settles in, feels Hags’ hand resting warm on his hip. Henke rubs his lips on Mats’ hair and says, soft and reverent, “You’re so good for us.” Hags hand tightens briefly on Mats’ hip, reminding him that he’s there too, even while he remains silent.

“I’m the best,” Mats tells them, yawning wide and half asleep, but still clear on exactly where they all stand. “And you’re paying for that jersey to be dry cleaned.” Hags snickers into the skin of his neck, and Henke says, fond, “Sleep now. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally planned summary: "All of them at once," said Bilbo.


End file.
